


(I want your) lover's balls

by Hieiandshino



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hieiandshino/pseuds/Hieiandshino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Chuck had another nightmare again. You know that because he’s easy to read and for two reasons: one, he never enters your room in the middle of the night unless he loses his sleep; and two, he is only like this when he needs reassurance.</i>
</p><p>(Written for the Pacific Rim Kink Meme prompt: Chuck loves Herc's balls. Unrevised work)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I want your) lover's balls

**Author's Note:**

> Pacific Rim (All Media Types) does not belong to me.
> 
> This fanfic is unrevised and, because my first language isn't English, there will be mistakes. As soon as I have the revised work, I'll edit it.
> 
> For the [prompt](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/2747.html?thread=4286139#t4286139): _Chuck loves Herc's balls. Sucking, licking, nuzzling and just holding them. Just idea that he came from there gets chuck hot._  
>  \+ Chuck uses Herc's cock as a binky/soother/pacifier if he has a nightmare.  
> ++Herc refers to Chuck by a pet name e.g. Baby Boy.

Your breath comes in shallow gulps as if you just ran a marathon. A marathon would, of course, be easier than the constant guilt of knowing how well Chuck knows what you like best in bed. It should be different: you should comfort when he wakes up from a nightmare, like any other father ( _or something close to it_ ), but your baby boy always wants more than most kids, and always wants differently.

Chuck had another nightmare again. You know that because he’s easy to read and for two reasons: one, he never enters your room in the middle of the night unless he loses his sleep; and two, he is only like this when he needs reassurance.

_(You woke up with a strong weight on your legs and warm pressure on your member, making you buck against hands and fingers that know you just as much as you know them. **Dad** , Chuck said, a question and an answer, and you knew what he meant, so you just nodded, lifted one hand and brought that young face — **of course, baby boy, anything for you** — close to yours so you could kiss the haunted look off and leave only the desire you two always knew how to handle better than your own emotions — the other ones, more pure and much more complicated)_

He calls you _dad_. Moans _dad, daddy, father,_ **_please_** , but he is not asking for you to fuck him. Baby boy wants you to come; come over his face; wants to feel your balls elevating and emptying — if the last one is even possible. He wants the soft skin you have down there and the prominent veins; wants you gasping for air, fighting to not thrash too much; wants your curses and the way you mumble, _baby, my baby, baby boy, **yes**_. Chuck always wanted too much and since you started giving him the world — your world, your mind, your secrets and your body — he never seems to know what he wants _first_. So, as the greed boy he is, he tries to take everything.

( _Your biggest fear, however — and the one that keeps you awake or that makes you wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and holding your screams — is the one where he takes away everything that makes you Hercules Hansen and disposes it carefully inside a coffin, right next to his body._

 _It happened once, with a bomb that fell from the sky and Angela hidden underneath a car_ )

 _Dad_. Chuck moans again, voice muffled because of his position and you just shush him — _shh, it’s okay, baby boy, I’m with you_ —, hide Angela and her death inside your mind again and focus on the tongue that travels through your most intimate parts and brings to surface all the sounds that, in a different situation, you would have kept hidden.

Your fingers play with his short hair, pressing him against your shaft the way he wants, making him rut against the bed. Your baby boy makes the sweetest sounds when he is like this, so focused on making himself better he forgets to keep it down.

( _You have solved him a long time ago: it’s by losing himself in you that Chuck puts himself together and, if you can’t make him what he was before the nightmare — before the bomb and the choice —, you can give him this: the ways instead of the solution. It’s the least you can do_ )

When you come, hard and exactly like he wants — messy, one of your balls elevating, Chuck milks away what lasts of you and ignores what has spilled on his face —, he gets up, sits again on your legs in a way that immediately cuts the circulation of them, and grabs your balls once again. The motion is sudden and makes you hold your breath, in a good and bad way, flinching a little in surprise. They still are wet with his saliva, something that makes you gasp when he manipulates smartly his finger against the skin.

Baby boy knows the texture so well, you think idly, your balls trapped between his fingers. His obsession is old, and never seems to bore him. Ever since the beginning, all he wants is to touch you and make you come on him, grab your balls and tell you dirty things and it makes you _crazy_.

“Wanna know why?” He asks, smiling wildly. You realize you have been mumbling this whole time. You feel your face grow hot, and it makes even worse because you are a bloody ginger and how Chuck can’t notice? “No need to be embarrassed, _daddy_. I like it.”

“‘Course you do, baby boy.” You mumble, still flushing. “What you don’t like ‘bout me?”

Chuck bends down to kiss you and you lick your own come from his face, makes him giggle like a sprog before kissing you again. The salty taste is shared between your tongues and the boy groans at it, squeezes your balls between his fingers and you break the kiss, because _Jesus._

You pant _baby boy_ , over and over again, and Chuck only grunts, one hand slipping to his own erection. And then he starts: “Did ya know, daddy, that there are over fifteen million sperms per millimeter? Some say it’s more, some say it’s less. For me it’s bloody enough and it made me think that I’m a fucking miracle, ain’t I, daddy?” He punctuates by going down on you again, licking your balls again, making you hard _again_.

You groan, _yes, yes, of course, anything, baby, just—_ But he shushes you, stops what he was doing and starts bloody talking _one more time_. “I’m practically a miracle; fifteen million and basically none of them make the trip to get someone up the duff. Only some are able to penetrate an ovum and create a sprog.” His face is suddenly close to yours, eyes shining, dark with desire. He brings your shafts together and you bit your bottom lip to not scream at the delicious friction babyboyis making. He keeps whispering: “Yeah, I’m a bloody miracle. One of a kind. And who deserves me more than you, dad?”

“I was made for this.” He keeps saying, over and over again, moaning louder and louder to anybody hear what you do to him without bloody doing anything. And if someone thought your relationship with your son was disturbing, they are more than right, now. The pressure builds up, and your head becomes clearer and clearer, light and filled with only your boy’s voice whispering: “I was made from you. _For you_.”

Yeah, he is a bloody gift, and all yours. _Mine baby boy mine mine mine mi—_

You both come at the same time.

.

Chuck hugs your hips, slips a little so half of his body is on the bed and the other half is on you, hides his face on the angle of your neck and breaths slowly, heavily. His face is burning and you, well, you are bloody satisfied.

“What did you dream about, baby boy?” You ask, bothered by the come cooling and gluing you both together, but too tired to move. “What did make you all like this?”

Your baby boy stays silent for a moment, pondering or hesitating to say something, but he eventually tells you what you know is the truth: “About dying.”

You want to press more, want to ask if he dreamed about dying alone, about happening outside a jaeger, about you choosing your own wife instead of your sprog, but chooses to stay silent. You are so used with this life you sometimes forget that there is no way to make dying _better_ and no difference between dying alone or inside a giant robot. Death is death and it’s scary enough to make even the bravest of the men terrified.

“Not today. She’ll be right.” You whisper and say it again and again just to make sure he has heard you. Then, you just breath and wait to your kid get heavy in your arms before falling yourself asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Some words/expressions come from Australians slangs, so there you go:
> 
>  **VOCABULARY** (according to: [here](http://bartrade.biz/ozslang.htm) and [here](http://alldownunder.com/australian-slang/dictionary-kids.htm))  
>  **LOVER'S BALLS:** Blue balls  
>  **SPROG:** Kid  
>  **UP THE DUFF:** Pregnant  
>  **SHE'LL BE RIGHT:** Don't worry


End file.
